Of Garlic Fries and (Something Not Entirely Unlike) Friendship
by Ifwecansparkle
Summary: Spike is feeling under the weather, and against her better judgment Buffy tries to make him feel better. The Scoobies pitch in as only they can.


T**his is my first Buffy fic, inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about how garlic affects Buffyverse vamps. What follows is a bit of silliness and a load of fluff, in which Spike is sickly and Buffy does what she can to help. Spuffy if you want it to be, otherwise feel free to think of it as a friendship fic. Enjoy!**

"Bloody sodding hell," Spike groaned, doubling over slightly as he walked, lagging behind Buffy. He followed it up with a long, low moan of "Goddddddddd..."

Buffy Summers paused in her trek to allow Spike to catch up. She glanced behind, pursing her lips in a way that she hoped he would read as more amusement than mild concern. "You know, I'm going to be pretty annoyed if I waited all these years to dust you, only to have you crumble away into nothingness over junk food. I mean I know the food at The Bronze isn't great, but I don't think it's killed anyone yet."

"How was I supposed to know it had garlic in it?" Spike demanded peevishly, catching up to her.

"Are you trying to tell me you didn't expect the Garlic Fries to have a secret ingredient like, you know, garlic? I seem to recall that you were somewhere around your second pitcher of beer when you said, and I quote," Buffy adopted her best imitation of Spike's accent, "'first they get rid of the onion thing, then they make the menu all garlic-y. How do they expect a bloke to live around here? It's not very welcoming. Sunnydale's becoming a dangerous place for vampires, and it's not just because of you, Slayer, so don't flatter yourself on that account. Well, I'll show them. A little garlic's never done me in before. To hell with it, I'm still The Big Bad. You've got to put a little more effort than that into driving me out. Discrimination, that's what it is.' And then you asked for a large order of garlic fries, and when I tried to get you to change your mind, you told me to save my garlic warnings for Angel. I was out on patrol, and I had to stay to handle crowd control in case you ended up turning into a pile of dust in the middle of the dance floor."

"I wasn't drunk enough to dance," Spike defended weakly.

"Just drunk enough to risk your life to prove you're big and tough, right?"

"Don't know what the Watcher's Council has been putting in your head, luv, but garlic's not exactly at the top of the list of things that'll dust us, all things consi-" he cut himself off and doubled over again, groaning.

"Oh really," Buffy said, hands planted firmly on her hips. "So this is just-what, a touch of heartburn?"

"I didn't say it was fun," he groaned, catching his breath. "Didn't say we wouldn't end up with collywobbles, just thought you might pass the tip on to good ol' Rupert, since none of you lot will bring up how his place smells of the stuff all the time. Can't imagine having to live in that stench. Oh wait, yes I can, sorry."

Buffy rolled her eyes, but offered Spike a hand to right himself, all the same. "Okay now?" She asked. He grumbled something noncommittal under his breath.

Their journey carried them through the (surprisingly quiet) graveyard, and when they reached Spike's crypt, he stopped. "S'ppose I'm supposed to thank you for the escort, 'though I didn't need it. I'm not a bloody invalid, you know," his bravado seemed somehow less convincing with his arms clamped firmly across his midsection, and his skin even paler than usual. Buffy carefully filed the image away as suitable blackmail material, and as an excuse for what happened next.

"Spike, you look all sick and gross, and I didn't even know that was possible. The sick thing. The gross thing, I was pretty much aware of. And not that it isn't your own fault, but it doesn't do me any good to have you out of commission, so..."

"So, what?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow at her.

"So...why don't you come back to my place and we'll..." She shrugged noncommittally, "Figure something out. Make sure you don't die. Something."

"I already told you, Pet-"

"Right, right," she held up her hands in surrender. "The Big Bad. Got it. Well, if you're not coming..." She started to walk away. She had gotten all of seven paces when she heard footsteps.

"Oi! Slayer!"

"What is it, Spike?"

"Didn't say I wouldn't appreciate the assistance, just that if you've gotten your hopes up for my turning into a pile of dust come morning, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you."

"And you somehow believe I'm not used to that yet?" He studied her to see if she was joking or not, but she didn't seem sure of the answer herself. He cracked a feeble grin all the same, and followed her home.

By the time they reached Scooby Headquarters (also known as the Summers Household), Spike had settled into a routine of small, irritating, whiny sick noises that Buffy found, in equal parts, annoying and disconcerting.

"I can't find my key," she said after pausing for a moment at the back door to search.

"No muss no fuss, there's one under your doormat," Spike ground out through clenched teeth. Buffy froze, and turned to stare at him through narrowed eyes for a moment. She kicked at the doormat and found a spare house key exactly as he had said.

"I'm going to ignore that for now," she told him sternly, picking the key up and unlocking the door. She replaced they key under the mat, telling herself as she did so that she really needed to find a new place to hide it. Once inside the house, she tossed her stake on the counter. "I'm home!" she called to anyone who was in the house to hear. She pointed in the direction of the living room. "Couch," she directed, as he followed her inside, shutting the door behind him.

"Stop tellin' me what to do," he groused, shrugging out of his jacket and and letting it pool onto the floor as he obeyed, slouching into living room to flop onto the couch. Buffy sighed and picked up the jacket, draping it across the counter.

Before she could respond, she heard two sets of footsteps padding down the stairs. "Buffy? That you?" Willow called.

"Yeah, I'm in the kitchen!" She yelled back, holding her breath until she heard Willow and Tara bypass the living room to join her.

"How was patrol?" Tara questioned.

"Yeah, you were gone kind of a long time, is everything okay?"

"Okay? Yeah, everything's fine," Buffy was suddenly consumed with trying to find a way to explain the current Spike-related situation, and realizing how ridiculous every version of it sounded in her head. She turned away from her friends and started throwing cabinets open haphazardly. "Willow, do we have any tea? Between you and Tara and Giles, we have to have some, right?"

"Um, sure, Buffy. I didn't know you were a big tea drinker?"

"O-oh yeah, I'm big on tea. I'm Mister Tea. Um, where is it?"

"Well, what kind do you want?"

Buffy whirled, horrified. "There are different kinds?" Before she could admit her complete ignorance regarding the world of tea, Tara interrupted timidly, pointing at the pile of black leather draped across the counter.

"Sorry, is that Spike's coat?" Willow's eyes panned to look where her girlfriend was pointing.

"Is Spike here?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow. Buffy saw no way around telling the whole truth, so she inhaled deeply and threw herself head first into the explanation.

"Yes, Spike is here. I thought he could-I mean-he's going to spend the night?" she meant to say it with conviction, but in the end it came out as more of a question.

"Uh, Buffy? Not that I'm going to question you on Slayer stuff, but-why? Is this another handcuff and bathtub thing?"

"Bloody well better not be!" Spike intoned from the living room. Tara jumped.

"No, it's-it's not. It's just-uh-" she shifted from one foot to the other. "He's not feeling well."

"Is he hurt?" Tara's brow furrowed deeply. It was her nature to be concerned for injured things, even when those injured things happened to be Spike.

"No, he's not exactly-" she was cut off by a loud groan and a string of increasingly creative expletives from the living room. Willow looked alarmed. Buffy cringed, gesturing limply in the direction of Exhibit A. "I think he has a stomachache."

"Shout a little louder, Luv, I don't think Angel heard you in sodding LA."

"A stomachache?" Willow questioned, breaking into a wary grin. "Heh, that's kind of-wait, h-how does that work exactly?"

"Garlic: apparently it's less of a vampire death sentence, and more of a one way ticket to some serious vamp indigestion."

"So he accidentally ate garlic?" Tara guessed.

"Less of an accident thing and more of a beer thing," Buffy corrected with an irritated quirk of her eyebrows.

"Ah," both Tara and Willow responded in perfect unison.

"Not to be insensitive," Willow continued, "but why bring him here? I mean, Spike's been in lots worse scrapes that don't require Nurse Buffy."

Before Buffy could respond, she heard loud footsteps coming down the stairs. They stopped halfway and Dawn, clearly delighted, questioned, "Spike? What are you doing here?"

"Evenin', Niblet," he greeted her genially enough. Dawn clomped the rest of the way down the stairs and appeared seconds later in the kitchen.

"What's Spike doing here?" She demanded.

"Hello to you, too," Buffy responded pointedly. Dawn rolled her eyes, but grinned and properly greeted her sister.

"How was patrolling? Did you and Spike-"

"Spike wasn't large on the patrolling tonight," Buffy interrupted. Dawn's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Spike's got a tummyache," Willow clarified, finally allowing herself to giggle slightly at the scenario. Dawn craned her neck backwards to look at Spike, who by this time had made himself quite at home on the sofa. He looked up from fluffing a throw pillow.

"Right, let's make sure everyone knows," he said drily. "Call up everyone, tell them Spike's having an off day."

"I could invite Giles," Buffy suggested cheerfully.

Spike groaned.

"Are you gonna barf?" Dawn called into the next room.

"No!"

"I was going to make him some tea," Buffy said, turning back to her friends and her sister. "But apparently there are different kinds," she added, offended at the notion. "Willow? Tara?"

"Chamomile?" Willow suggested.

"Or mint," Tara added.

"Mint is good," Willow agreed. "I'll see if we have any left."

"Thanks. And could you do the-uh-making part also?"

"Sure," Willow laughed.

"Dawn," Buffy said, "Didn't Xander leave some sweatpants and stuff here a while back?" Dawn snorted.

"Try your junior year," she said, rolling her eyes. "Mom's been-Mom was kicking them around the laundry room for years."

"Great, why don't you grab them. Spike might need something to sleep in."

Dawn bobbed her head in agreement and disappeared.

"Do you actually think Spike is going to resign himself to wearing sweatpants?" Tara asked with interest.

"I don't know," Buffy said, shrugging. "Depends on how sickly and pathetic he's feeling. If he does, we're definitely taking pictures." The party from the living room did not chime in.

Dawn returned with an armful of clothing. "Here you go, Buffy. Hey, I had a great idea!" She bobbled from one foot to the other in anticipation. Buffy eyed her critically.

"What is it?" She asked, eyes narrowing a bit suspiciously as she took the wadded sweatpants away from her sister and draped them over one arm. Dawn also handed her a rumpled tee-shirt with a comic book character on it that she felt entirely sure Spike would hate. She snorted and Dawn grinned as if reading her mind.

"I was thinking, we should just have a big sleepover in the living room," she enthused, bouncing onto the balls of her feet. "It'll be fun, and we'll be here if Spike needs anything."

"Spike can take care of himself," Buffy said.

"Right, that's why you brought him here," Dawn responded blandly. Buffy pursed her lips, irritated at having been caught in her own logic.

"You have school tomorrow," she reminded Dawn, pointing a finger at her.

"Tomorrow's Saturday," Dawn reminded right back, mimicking her sister's accusatory motion.

Buffy glanced hopefully at Tara for backup, but the witch shrugged apologetically and admitted, "It is. Saturday."

Buffy raised her hands in defeat for the second time that evening. "Fine. Fine! If you want to sleep on the floor and listen to Spike whine all night, be my guest." Dawn bounced on her toes, pleased with her success.

"I'll get some blankets!" She darted away and Buffy rolled her eyes. Tara offered another apologetic shrug.

"Do you need help? With the Spike situation?"

"Well, you're welcome to stick around for the show, if you want, but otherwise it looks like Nurse Dawn is on the case."

Tara grinned. "I'll talk to Willow," she conceded. As if on cue, Willow returned with a steaming mug.

"Tea for the patient," she giggled, apparently finding the entire situation hilarious. She handed the mug off to Buffy, who nodded her thanks and sat off for the living room. There she found Spike curled into himself and half-dozing on the couch.

"Wake up, Sleepyhead," Buffy ordered, tossing the clothing on top of him. His eyes opened.

"What's this?" He demanded, wriggling into a sitting position and plucking the clothes up between two fingers.

"I brought you tea," she said, holding the mug out to him. He shot her an irritated look.

"I meant these," he said, but he dropped the clothes and reached for the tea all the same.

"They're clothes. For you to sleep in."

"Those," he said, indicating the sweatpants with a quirk of his eyebrow, "are not clothes. And they smell like that git."

"Xander? That's because they're his clothes," she emphasized the last word.

"'M not wearing 'em," he declared, glaring up at her through a light haze of steam rising up from the tea.

"Fine, but you're going to want them when you get all bloat-y," Buffy warned, almost at a sing-song. Spike's glare intensified.

"I am not-" he cut himself off with a moan of pain and pulled his knees to his chest. Buffy snorted.

"Drink your tea," she said, nudging the mug closer to his lips. "It'll help. At least, I think. Willow wasn't very clear on what mint tea does, but I'm going to take her word on it," she eyed him critically. "You're all British, isn't this more your area?" He shrugged, taking a sip of the tea.

"Never been much for tea beyond the occasional Builder's," he said. Even so, his eyes slid closed and he sighed with contentment as he sipped.

"Dawn's decided that it's her duty to nurse you back to health, or something," Buffy warned. "She's setting up base camp down here. Don't let her keep you from resting." Spike shuffled uncomfortably.

"'M not wildly optimistic about the resting part as it is," he confessed.

"I don't want to say 'I told you so,' about all this, but..." she shrugged. "I did tell you so."

Spike blinked wearily up at her, as if deciding whether or not it was worth it to argue. In the end he went back to sipping his tea wordlessly. Buffy felt something almost like concern: if Spike wasn't up to arguing-and with her of all people-he was probably feeling worse than even e was letting on. Unsure of what to do, she reached a hand out and pressed it to his forehead. He quirked an eyebrow at her wordlessly.

"I don't know what I was expecting," she admitted when his skin was cool to the touch.

"Yeah, me neither," he agreed, still peering up at her with mild confusion. Buffy sighed.

"It's what my mom used to do when-" she shook her head. "Nevermind. That's silly." She made no comment about the way Spike's expression softened at the mention of her mother.

"Afraid I'm not built quite like you and the little one, Pet," he said, smiling up at her with a surprising amount of sincerity. Buffy blustered in response.

"I'm going to bed," she said. "Dawn will probably be down in a few minutes. Try not to let her annoy you too much, but ask her if you need anything."

"Much obliged," he said, bobbing his head in her direction. "G'night."

"Goodnight," she said, nodding stiffly at him and heading towards the stairs. She met Dawn coming down with a pile of pillows and blankets.

"Buffy! I've got plenty of blankets if you want to stay down here."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I've had about all the sickly Spike I can stand for a while." Dawn giggled.

"Okay," she said. "Does he need anything?"

"Just some rest, I think. A chance to pout and learn a valuable lesson about listening to me."

"Not a chance in hell," Spike intoned from the next room, making Dawn laugh again.

"See what I mean?" Buffy said shrugging primly. She wrapped one arm awkwardly around her sister and her blankets and then headed upstairs. She ducked her head into Willow and Tara's room to say goodnight, noting that they had also opted out of Spike Watching duty.

"I'm going to bed," she said. "Dawn's downstairs playing slumber party with Spike."

"Okay," Willow said, looking up from her task of brushing out Tara's long hair. "Do they need anything?" Buffy shook her head.

"I'm sure if they need anything Dawn will let us know. Probably loudly and at two AM."

"In that case, you should get some rest," Tara pointed out gently.

"Right," she waved at her friends and went to change for bed.

Two hours later, all remained silent from downstairs, but Buffy was still wide awake in her bed. This Spike situation had thrown her. Her irritation at him for the ridiculous and dangerous stunt had been lessened by her irritation at herself for offering to help him. If there was anyone who had a right not to be invested in the care and keeping of vampires, it was her. And yet right now Spike was lying on her couch and she was wondering how he was feeling.

"Slayer. Yeah, right," she muttered to herself as she threw off her blankets and left her room, creeping downstairs in her pajamas and bare feet. Peering into the living room, she could see a Dawn-shaped pile on the floor under a mound of pillows and blankets. In the other direction she could hear restless shuffling.

"Slayer?" Spike slurred at her, sounding groggy and disoriented.

"It's me," she confirmed. "I couldn't sleep."

"I know the feeling," he responded with a snort. "Oh God," he added under his breath. Buffy turned towards him. In the semi-darkness of the living room she could make out that he had succumbed to the sweatpants. Xander's graphic tee-shirt still lay in a pile on the coffee table, but then again, so did his own skin-tight v-neck. She studiously ignored his shirtlessness, focusing her attention on the way he grasped at his stomach, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.

"Still feeling all sick?" She questioned.

"Might say that," he ground out between clenched teeth.

"Do you need anything?"

"Got anything stronger than tea?" He questioned hopefully. She raised her eyebrows at him, challenging him.

"You really want to try your luck with anything stronger than tea?" He grimaced in response.

Buffy minced her way through the dark towards Spike and perched herself on the edge of the couch. Glancing him over,she offered her expert opinion. "I told you you'd get all bloat-y."

"You can bloody well shut up, Slayer." he growled at her. She chuckled and reached out to move his hands and place them by his sides.

"What are you doing?" He eyed her suspiciously, his body tensing up as if on instinct. Instead of responding she reached out haltingly to touch him, allowing her thumb to trace gentle circles against the bare skin of his stomach. He continued to stare up at her cautiously for a moment, but finally the exhaustion of the evening won out. He relaxed for the first time in hours under her touch.

"Better?" she questioned, continuing the soothing motion. He offered a noncommittal sound in response, but his expression betrayed gratitude. "Why do you do this?" She questioned softly.

"Hm? Do what, pet?"

"This. You throw yourself into these messes. I'm guessing all the garlickiness isn't a laugh riot, so what's the point?" He pondered the question and shrugged.

"It's a life," he said after a moment. "Not much left to it now, I can't even get in a decent kill these days, what with having to do the deed on demons, and having you lot around all the time. Makes things harder."

"Performance anxiety?" Buffy questioned drily. He snarled at her. Across the room, Dawn shifted under her blankets but did not wake up.

"Plus, things get a bit bloody boring after 200 odd years. Gotta find a way to feel something every now and again," he glanced at her slyly, eyes half-closed. "What about you?"

"What? What am I doing?"

He responded with a languid shrug. "You keep trying to fix me."

Buffy faltered, pulling her hand back as if she had been burned. Slowly she resumed the motion, her touch even more ginger than before. "I guess because you keep getting broken," she said finally. He cracked a grin at her response.

"Pretty good incentive to stay broken, innit?"

"You're sick, so I'm going to let that one slide," she told him, giving him a severe look. He nodded seriously, blond head bobbing in the dark.

They sat in silence after that, Buffy continuing with her ministrations until she noticed Spike had finally drifted off to sleep. Not feeling like going back upstairs, she grabbed one of of the extra blankets Dawn had provided and curled up small on the other end of the couch. This time it didn't take long at all for her to drift off to sleep.

"Whoah, did I miss something?" A voice broke through Buffy's haze of sleep. She and Spike sat bolt upright on the couch at the same second, glanced at each other, and then out at the man standing in the living room trying to look scandalized. Xander toed at the pile of blankets on the floor and Dawn emerged from it, yawning.

"Hey Xander," she murmured sleepily. "Where's Anya?"

"She's doing inventory at The Magic Box today," he said dismissively, obviously more concerned with the situation in front of him.

"How did you get in here?" Buffy demanded, brushing hair out of her face.

"Spike's all cuddled up on the couch and your question is how I got in here? There's a key under the doormat."

Spike turned to grin at Buffy like the cat that ate the canary, and she kicked her blanket at him.

"Is anyone going to explain this to me?" Xander continued to press this issue, irritated. He looked down. "Dawnie, you want to tell me what's going on?" She wriggled out of her makeshift bed and stood, stretching mightily.

"Spike's sick," she said, as if that explained everything. Xander nodded, motioning to indicate that he expected more information than that.

"He's got a stomachache," she continued, punctuating the statement by bouncing up on her toes once.

"Aw," Xander teased, glancing over in the direction of the couch. "Did Spike get some bad blood?"

"Something like that," Buffy agreed. Spike rolled his eyes.

"Well, go on then," he said. "No point in preserving my dignity now," addressing Xander he added, "can't say as I'd recommend the garlic fries at The Bronze, in case you're wondering. Bloody poor substitute for the onion thing."

Xander broke into an annoyingly exuberant grin and laughed out loud. "Garlic fries? The big mean vampire was done in by garlic fries? My God, that's amazing."

"Alright, Xander," Buffy warned.

"And he got here because...?"

"Because I brought him here. Spike's more valuable in working order-"

"Matter of opinion."

"And I'd like to keep him that way."

"Okay, Buff. Whatever you say," Xander held up his hands in defeat as he stepped towards the couch. "But warn a guy before I come in and find Spike all shirtless and curled up next to you. I didn't work a heart attack into my schedule today."

"Well, if you have one, I'll give up my place on the couch," Buffy assured him. Xander quickly forgot the offer as he neared the tableau laid out before him.

"Hey! Are those my sweatpants? And my tee-shirt?" He plucked the pile of fabric off of the coffee table and it rose, torn into systematic shreds. He gasped as though scandalized and glared at Spike.

"Bloody awful shirt, mate," Spike defended. "Needed something to distract me from my suffering."

Xander harrumphed. "It was my favorite!"

"Did you even remember you left it here?" Dawn challenged.

"No, but that doesn't mean it wasn't my favorite."

Buffy turned her attention to Spike. "How are you feeling?" He waved away the question, regaining some of his bravado in the presence of others.

"I'm not dust yet," he said. He reached for his shirt and then winced mightily. "Might not say no to a bit more of the witch's brew, though."

"Witch's brew?" Xander questioned, raising his eyebrows.

"Mint tea," Buffy translated.

"Right."

"I'll see what I can do," Buffy said. "I don't know if Willow and Tara are awake yet."

"We're awake," Willow said, descending the stairs.

"And on tea duty," Tara added, following behind her.

"Thanks."

"Okay, so we've established that Spike makes lousy decisions, nothing new there," Xander said, still clutching the remains of his shirt and looking distressed, "So what's your deal, Buffy? Were you just feeling the bad decision vibe too?" He emphasized the word bad.

"No, I was feeling the couldn't sleep vibe. And I was hoping for some blackmail material," she added with a grin. Xander's eyes lit up and he clapped his hands together.

"I like the way you think! Dawn, didn't you get a Polaroid camera for your birthday a couple of years ago? Spike, be a pal and try to look a little dead. Deader."

"If you wanna take pictures of me without clothes you've got to pay just like everyone else," Spike responded, shooting Xander a two-fingered salute.

"Gross," Dawn put in mildly.

"Enough," Buffy said, leaning forward to swat Spike's hand down.

"Xander, Dawn, why don't you go try to find something for breakfast, for anyone who feels like eating."

"Right," Dawn said, grabbing Xander by the arm and pulling him towards the kitchen.

"This isn't over," Xander warned, failing to specify exactly what he planned to follow up on.

"Oh, right, I'm afraid," Spike mumbled the second they were alone.

"Who knows? He might be able to take you right now."

"Don't even joke, Slayer."

"I'm serious! I mean, he might not be able to stake you, but we know your weaknesses now."

"Weaknesses?" He snorted incredulously.

"Well, garlic for one."

"And the other is?" She grinned at him.

"Tummy rubs."

Spike launched a throw pillow at her. It missed her completely and knocked over a lamp, which shattered onto the floor.

"What broke?" Dawn demanded from the kitchen.

"Nothing," Spike and Buffy called in perfect unison. Buffy stood from the couch to recover the pieces of the lamp before anyone could return to verify their claim.

"It's alright," she said softly. "Apparently I have a habit of trying to fix broken things."

"That you do, Slayer."


End file.
